


The Knight out of Space

by Halberdier



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Original, Gen, Horror, Inspired by H. P. Lovecraft, Null Session (Homestuck), SBURB (Homestuck), Void Session (Homestuck), Weird fiction, cosmic horror, gamefaqs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27064654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halberdier/pseuds/Halberdier
Summary: On a dark, stormy night, you find yourself browsing the GameFAQs forums for any hint of new or cool games that might be coming. A fruitless effort most any other time, but on this night, you find a leaked walkthrough for a game that hasn't even been released yet: Sburb. You click it, hoping to find a way to kill a few hours' worth of boredom. What you find within is a tome of madness, written by one whose grief has only magnified the horror of their revelation. The story of one of the many sessions that were never meant to succeed.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 8





	1. Sburb Guide and Walkthrough - PC - By MindProphetCDXX | GameFAQs Game Hints And W...

**SBURB - GUIDE AND WALKTHROUGH**  
**Guide and Walkthrough by MindProphetCDXX**  
**Version:** 0.0.0 | **Updated:** 00/00/20XX  
  
=====================  
S B U R B  
=====================  
  
This FAQ is shared under a CC BY-NC-SA Licence. Not that it matters.  
All trademarks and copyrights contained in this document are owned by their respective trademark and copyright holders. The bastards.  
  
Written by: [][][][] [][][][][][]  
GameFAQs ID: MindProphetCDXX  
Contact me at: The Howling Void, The Furthest Ring, or The Blind Eternities  
System: PC, Windows Vista or greater  
  
List of sites that may host this FAQ:  
www.gamefaqs.com  
www.ign.com  
Anyone. Anyone who will listen. Someone please listen.  
www. cheatplanet.com  
  
=====================  
I N D E X  
=====================  
PART I. Overview  
PART II. The Doom that Came to Brooklyn  
PART III. The Writings on the Walls  
PART IV. The Shadow over Skaia  
PART V. The Whispers from the Darkness  
PART VI. The Dreams on the Quest Bed  
PART VII. More Bullshit  
PART VIII. It Keeps Happening  
PART IX. Confrontation and Conclusion  
=====================


	2. PART I: OVERVIEW

It is my sincerest hope, dear reader, that you have found this missive through sheer bored curiosity. For if happenstance is what led you to read these words, there may yet be a chance to avert the coming disaster. I know not how, of course, but I do know that if you came to this article looking for genuine assistance, already it is too late. At this point, you may as well still read this, prepare yourself for the utter annihilation that came to my world, to my time, and is most assuredly coming to yours. Or perhaps I should speak more urgently when it comes to you, my unhappy friend, for the apocalypse is already here.

Why pose this warning as a walkthrough, you ask? Why warn against the game by posing as a simple GameFAQs guide? It's difficult to say. Perhaps there is something in the nature of Paradox Space that allows or even encourages interdimensional communication in the form of walkthrough writing. Perhaps the game finds it only sporting to go through the traditional game circuits. And who else, then, could I alert? Polygon? Kotaku? If your world has even come so far as to allow these publications, they would surely laugh this off as a practical joke. Some April Fools Day prank only weeks too late. No, here I must post for only here will it stay -- the testament to my madness, the inscription upon the very crucible in which we were meant to be forged. And yet in which we were always, always meant to have failed.

It poses as a game, you see. A simple video game. Nothing more than an ordinary building simulation, one that is meant to be enjoyed with friends.

Friends.

Gods above, why do you demand this?

But this is a futile question. There is no why. There never is a why. And yet it is friendship that it demands, every single time. It hungers for the connection between loved ones, formed not through patrilineal succession, but through the bonds of nonfamilial kinship. Bonds that it intends to test, to warp, and to give new genesis to. I have learned this. Or rather, we learned this.

I am getting ahead of myself. One player must make a connection to another, creating a server-to-client connection. One may surmise, then, that it is possible for that same server-client pair to install the opposite programs to close the loop as simply a pair of co-players. That is not what we did. We had spoken with great excitement in our Discord for months leading up to this. When we learned how the connections must be forged, we decided to encompass all six of us within the server-client connection. And that is, of course, how we started.

We were not fast enough.

And when we had realized that only five of us had entered the game -- that only five of us WOULD enter the game -- we slowly learned that the game knew. It KNEW that we had been a team of six. And worse than that, it knew that one of us would not outrun the asteroids. For we saw all around us an unfolding mythology of six lights, one forever dimmed.

Again, I precede my point. I have spent so long, so long in this place where time means so little, where even simple cause and effect cannot fully distinguish themselves, that I have forgotten entirely how to begin at the beginning and continue from one thing to another.

Because enter the game you must. The game provides, as it says, all the means to alter your client player's environment in real time, and it also provides the means to create things that most certainly did not exist in this realm before. Each of these things is different, and it tests you -- the first of many tests deliberately and intimately designed for you, and you alone. For you were always going to play this game. And the game has always known you. Before you were even brought forth from slime, it knew -- it ALWAYS knew -- that you would be fated to return to its clutches.

Return. Even this is a faulty word now.


	3. PART II: THE DOOM THAT CAME TO BROOKLYN

My own entry into the Medium I will not bother describing. As I was the first to enter, the artifact that facilitated my step outside of reality was of little complexity. Soon, four of us had entered the session, and by then we had started to notice certain irregularities. Some of our team members had awoken their dream selves sooner than others, and they described the gold and purple moons upon which they had slumbered. These moons were covered entirely with an impossible architecture of kaleidoscopic cathedrals surrounding three magnificent towers apiece, each topped with an orb. With each one of us finding our way to the medium, another one of these orbs would light up. But by the fourth player's entry, one of us had looked closely enough to report that one of the two remaining dim orbs was marred by a series of deep cracks.

One of our players, described by the game as the Knight of Space, sheepishly admitted that she had been awake on the moon of Prospit long before any of the rest of us had even heard of Sburb. The Knight, long party to the prognosticative images shown in Skaia's atmosphere, confirmed that this orb, topping a tower on the moon of Derse, had been cracked for as long as she had seen it in the clouds of her dreams. As we began to slowly grasp the significance of various details of the game, we began to become more and more nervous about this cracked orb. After all, if the orbs illuminated themselves upon each player's entry, what did it mean that one was broken? Surely, if there were six towers, it somehow knew that we were a group of six players. And perhaps it knew that we were a tightly knit group of six friends. What could it possibly know, then, that required one of these towers broken?

With our fifth player's dramatic and narrow entrance into the Medium, we had become quite confident in what it was that we had to do. Thus, even before the fifth entry, I had been seated at my computer. Already was I poised atop the grand structure which the Knight had built. Already was I opening the connection to my client, our sixth and final teammate.

As our session had been running for a fair few hours by that point, we had already discovered the titles we had been assigned -- titles that, it seems, are naturally and preternaturally given to all who play this game. I have mentioned my server player, the Knight of Space, and I myself was cryptically dubbed the Prophet of Mind. So it was that my client -- our sixth player, struggling to navigate through a Brooklyn apartment already violently cluttered long before I made any changes -- was named in the curiously unfolding lore as the Heir of Doom. This name was relayed to me by the Knight, whom I had tasked with exploring the caverns of my planet, The Land of Notes and Diamonds, while I helped close the client-server loop. I remember receiving a chill of premonition when I heard that name, though I shook it off, reminding myself to focus on the task at hand.

We had deployed most of the equipment in his apartment, but space constraints and a strange lack of grist repeatedly stymied our efforts. As the clock on their cruxtruder counted down closer and closer to what we had learned was the moment of impending impact, it became harder and harder to ignore this feeling of dread. As dread crept over the line into panic, I found myself frantically ripping appliances and furnishings from the client's walls and floor, throwing them into the streets below their apartment with reckless abandon in order to clear the way. Distantly, as if talking to myself on the phone, I consoled myself that anyone who was still outside at this time was already doomed to be destroyed by falling objects, regardless of who had dropped them. I further told myself that our fifth player, the Prince of Time, had managed to escape into the Medium at the very last second.

How fortunate that the Prince would manage his Time so perfectly.

But this thought only reinforced the argument I tried not to entertain: that the game had somehow planned our fates from the start. And if the Prince of Time was aptly named, so too might the Heir of Doom. And this might lend further relevance to the cracked orb -- the only orb that had not illuminated itself yet. The only orb that could correspond to my client player himself.

Suddenly, violently, I was torn away from this train of thought by the realization that the Heir was kneeling on the floor, bent double. I messaged him to ask what was wrong, and he replied that not long ago, he had begun to develop an asthma attack, and now he was deep in its throes, making breath a near impossibility. I asked if he had an inhaler, promising to use the program's interface to get it to him faster than he could walk to it. He told me that it was in the drawer of the hallway nightstand. My heart seized within my body as I realized what had happened to that nightstand -- he had tripped on or bumped against that nightstand so many times, and in my haste to streamline the process, I had heaved it out the window.

I did not tell him this, and instead told him to hurry and finish creating his totem -- I would grab the inhaler as he worked to enter. After all, time was of the essence. He had less than two minutes until impact. While he set to work using the prepunched card and the cruxite dowel, I zoomed the viewfinder out to see if I could find the nightstand and his inhaler. I could see the nightstand on the street below, curiously intact after such a great fall, but I could not reach it. The damned server interface could only reach so far from the client!

I zoomed back in to check on him, when I saw what he held in his hand. It was a glowing blue object, similar in many ways as the objects each of us had to use to enter the medium, but as with all the others, its shape was unique among the lot. It was about the size of his palm, bulbous on one end, with a short, tapering neck. He moved his hand, and it flopped in an unsettlingly familiar way. Realization dawned on both of us as the Heir of Doom messaged me his last words:

"It's a balloon."


	4. PART III: THE WRITINGS ON THE WALLS

It is strange to me now how casually I can recount the first time I watched someone die. At the time, it was as if the afterimage of the explosion would never fade from where it had emblazoned itself upon my retinae. But after so much has happened, I have attributed a different significance to this event: this was when we knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that everything this game said was important. An orb that would never illuminate was never  _ meant _ to illuminate. This game had known that we six would attempt to play it. And worse, it knew that only five would succeed. Worse still, it knew exactly whom it had selected for elimination and named him with the significance of his demise.

So it was that we came to regard the lore of this game with an almost absurd literalism. If the Heir of Doom had himself inherited demise, might all of our titles mean something? Clearly the Prince of Time seemed to have at least a passive relationship to time itself. Might there be similar symbolism to the Knight of Space? The Page of Life? The Sylph of Breath? And myself, the Prophet of Mind?

Perhaps the game itself might tell us. Thus, to bury our grief, we threw ourselves into quests it had selected for each of us. Riddles spoke to us through ruins, through documents, through the idiot consorts of each land, and with the answer to each riddle came naught else but new riddles of even deeper complexity. And alongside the riddles, vicious encounters with bloodthirsty underlings, mutated horrifically to match the prototypings of all five living players. As we had begun playing the game, these abominations grew in power with each change, matching in time and specificity the arrival of each new player in the medium. And yet even though they mutated not when the Heir breathed his last, they still seemed to grow stronger, as if even without a player entering, some grim purpose had still been fulfilled.

And so uncounted hours passed in this realm of neither day nor night. We battled our enemies. We rescued our friends. We deciphered ancient writings that came into existence no sooner than the day we started, writings that had existed since before time immemorial. A story unfolded around us, a tale of two forces, eternally retold. A conflict between creation and destruction, between order and chaos, between a pair of kings and a pair of queens. It seemed this, too, had always had a foregone conclusion.

Our sprites, before their programming drove them away, helped prepare us for the inevitability of Prospit's defeat and the approaching hour of the Dersite king's reckoning. We had not seen him, but one particular bas relief carved onto an enormous wall deep within the caverns of The Land of Ash and Timbre purported to portray a crude facsimile of his silhouette. Compared alongside the roughly chiseled pawns and the rooks and knights that dwarfed them, the disparity was almost comically vast. While such shapes as we had grown familiar with were only an inch or a few in size, the entirety of this carving could only be seen once the Page, the Knight and I stood at a distance, each lighting a different part with our lanterns. If the symbols in front of us were to be taken seriously -- and serious we had discovered everything to be thus far -- then we were up against an enemy of truly unfathomable size and complexity. Even at this scale, the artwork towered above us, and in the flickering lights we held, it cast moving shadows whose very geometry seemed to slide from our understanding.

In the face of truly unconquerable odds, we made a vow to each other deep in that cavern, and we repeated it to the other two once we had assembled. We would use every single moment from then on to its fullest. We would solve the secrets hidden across the lands. We would learn to harness the powers that had just begun to manifest within us. We would scour the medium for equipment to alchemize the strongest weapons we possibly could. We would reach the highest rungs of our escheladders. We would raise the funds to purchase every single technique and fraymotif. We would defeat the denizens that slumbered in each land. And with the Prince of Time carefully monitoring the minutes until Reckoning, we would prepare ourselves the way only a gaming group could: level grind until nothing could touch us.

And so, with this pact firmly sealed, we dispersed to our respective planets in order to fight and grow strong. I to the Land of Notes and Diamonds. The Knight to the Land of Treetops and Frogs. The Page to the Land of Ash and Timbre. The Prince to the Land of Coils and Secrets. The Sylph to the Land of Sails and Vessels.

And no one to the dead, featureless orb of stone, hanging nameless amidst an unmoving cosmos.


	5. PART IV: THE SHADOW OVER SKAIA

In the event that you have been so unfortunate to have been chosen to play this game, you likely have come to this walkthrough hoping to find that very information itself.

It will not save you.

But you may as well arm yourself with as much information as possible. The win conditions are as follows:

(1.) The Space player's planet will always contain a forge and frogs. This is crucial, as their quest will require them to utilize the parascience of ectobiology in order to breed a very specific tadpole.

(2.) This tadpole must be fired from the forge into the lifeforce at the heart of the Battlefield, where it will gestate and grow into The Genesis Frog.

(3.) The team must defeat the Black King and end The Reckoning before meteorites completely destroy the Battlefield, the tadpole, and all hope of the two creating a new universe through the creation of the Genesis Frog.

(4.) When the Black King has been destroyed, his scepter has been claimed, and the Reckoning has been ended in time, the players will be presented with a door to the new universe that they have created, housed within the Genesis Frog.

There is, of course, no hope of saving the universe from which you started. But the goal is, indeed, to create a new one. For some, the reward is to be a god of this new universe. For me, the reward would have simply been creating a new chance at life. After all, there was one member of our team who would not be able to claim any reward, and no matter what my fellow players tried to tell me, I could not shake the understanding that I was the reason for that.

All I could do was distract myself from these thoughts. And so, along with the others, I fought monsters. I sought artifacts. I helped the Knight breed the perfect frog. I perfected my skills with the Whipkind and the 2xWhipkind strife abstratii. And I learned how to harness my newfound superpowers.

Thus, we grew powerful. Boondollars and boonbucks flowed into our porkhollows as we rapidly and relentlessly ascended the rungs of our escheladders. And just as rapidly did those riches pour out as we purchased the high tier loot and elite fraymotifs. All the while, we communicated to each other our findings as we solved riddles and our results as we completed quests. We also found ourselves refusing to speak of our fallen friend. The recorded lore and iconography were filled with references to The Light Forever Dark, and each time we had to relay what we had found, we would tiptoe around these points.

Each time we talked, it became easier to ignore the truth. Each time we discovered it, it became harder to feel the pain. Before long, it almost seemed like it didn't matter at all. Nothing mattered but the mission.

And the mission was proceeding exactly as planned.

Thanks to the Prince's careful planning and the Knight's careful organization, it was mere moments before the beginning of the Reckoning that we met as a team for one final time. We had become such a formidable fighting force that no words were necessary. We looked at each other with courage and admiration, knowing that victory -- if not necessarily assured -- was well within our grasp.

Together, we fired the Genesis Tadpole deep into the heart of the battlefield.

As it careened toward its mark, so too did the meteors begin to descend upon the warzone at the very center of Skaia.

The Reckoning had begun.

We leapt through a series of portals and soon arrived at the site of our fated battle.

There, towering above the battlefield like an ancient monument built to man's hubris, stood the Black King. His unfathomable girth blocked out the light and cast a shifting and writhing shadow over the whole of Skaia, a feat itself remarkable by the mere fact that this world's light had no single source. So completely were we dwarfed by his stature that we could hardly discern his outline -- where each limb began or ended seemed to change from moment to moment, and even the word "limb" seemed laughably reductive. Could we tell the difference between an arm and a tentacle? A claw and a flagellum? A leg and a pseudopod?

While its form renewed a sense of terror in our hearts, its size somehow left us undaunted. We had already slain the denizens of five worlds, and thus were already used to battling enormous monsters. And yes, this was the largest any of us had ever faced, but as a team, altitude provided no barrier for us.

The Sylph of Breath, of course, had learned how to fly upon the wind currents. Before too long, she had reached the apex of the Black King's monumental might and was firing volley after volley of magnificently alchemized arrows into his head. She could even use her powers to guide them true, and where the thing's brutal appendages swatted at her, she could just melt into the breeze itself and let him pass through. And for the rest of us, the Knight of Space made it a simple matter for us to attack from anywhere at any time. The portals she could create could catch us when we fell, change our direction, launch us high into the air, or drop us from a great height. And when she wasn't using them to throw us, she used them to throw her near endless supply of deadly handaxes at terminal velocity in any direction. The Prince of Time would slow our foe and hasten our maneuvers -- maneuvers that I could strategize through my limited ability to sense the intentions of others and predict the optimal course of action -- and the Page of Life could heal our wounds and restore our energy, keeping us alert and unharmed well past what any normal fighting force could have managed through the hours of combat.

And hours indeed it was. For every blow we gave, we received threefold. Not only had we to concern ourselves with the flaming cosmic rain, but the monstrous thing that we had come to wage war against seemed nigh on impenetrable. Ever shifting. Ever growing. And yet… and yet it also seemed incomplete. I cannot say what could possibly have given me the impression, but something in the back of my mind would not go away.

Our sprites had informed us that the similarities we noticed between them and the creatures of this world were no mere coincidence -- every item we had used to prototype the kernel sprite before it hatched upon entry shaped the entire medium in unique ways. If this monstrosity had grown with each prototyping… If the Heir had entered the medium with us, how much stronger and more complex would the Black King have become?

Were we then to believe we were fighting an unfinished monarch? It certainly did not feel as though there was much that could possibly be missing from a foe whose very size and shape nearly broke the mind to comprehend. But the fact remained that, if our friend had not fallen with the meteorites, we would be facing something of a completely different order of magnitude.

Of course, we would also have another comrade in the fight.

And we would still have our friend.

These thoughts sprung tears to my eyes -- tears which I had assumed I had no more of. But with the exertion of the battle, the exhaustion, the pain, the unbidden thoughts even as I sought to be aware of everything around me… Well. It slipped through the cracks.

And it made me vicious.

I struck at the Thing with renewed vigor -- lashing at its eyes and face with two whips at a time. And I was not the only one who seemed to catch a brutal and painful second wind. The Knight let out an anguished howl as she launched an enormous volley of Missile Tomahawks into a portal below her.

If she was feeling the same fury and grief that I was, however, it did not affect her abilities one bit. With true aim, she opened the other end of the portal so that the rocket-propelled handaxes -- now at their maximum velocity -- struck at what I could only assume was the wrist of the appendage in which the Black King held his mighty scepter. In a flash, I recognized exactly what her intent was, and I did my best to communicate it to the others. The Sylph fired exploding arrows at the same area, and so too thusward did the Page hurl their mighty Swashed Buckler. The Prince slowed that hand's movement, and I reached out with my whips to snatch the scepter away.

The coordinated assault worked, and the scepter flung from the Black King's grip.

The giant flashed with a blinding light, and in an instant, what had seemed miles above the battlefield was now collapsed upon it with a stature not much different from a man.

With nothing for my whips to suspend me from, I began to fall from a tremendous height, and yet I did not even for a moment entertain the thought of worry. Before I had reached even a somewhat appreciable speed, I had been safely shepherded to the ground below by the Knight's portals. The possibility that this might not happen hadn't entered my mind. So fluid was our work together as a team that my trust in her had become instinctual, as natural as brushing the hair out of my eyes or adjusting the glasses on my nose.

And yet, as we gathered around the felled monarch, I could count myself among the Prince of Time, the Page of Life, and the Sylph of Breath, but in that moment, the Knight of Space was nowhere to be found. I cast about for any sign of her, but for what felt to be hours -- likely less than a minute, but adrenaline had consumed me -- she was not even a speck on the horizon. 

Then she was before us, stepping from one of her portals. She made her apologies for her absence, then showed the reason for it -- in one hand she held the Black King's sceptre, and in the other, the Black Queen's ring.

"Are you ready to end this?" she asked us.

All of us nodded, trembling, nearly on the verge of tears with the knowledge that we had succeeded. We had come so far through so much hardship, and now, finally, had defeated the king. It was time to command the Reckoning to cease and to open the door to what we had created.

A new universe.

A safe universe.

The Knight put on the ring and raised the scepter. With thunderous bangs and blinding flashes of light, the meteorites that rained down upon us split a hundred, a thousand times, until the particles falling were no larger and no more deadly than grains of confectioner's sugar.  
  
As the dust settled around us and our vision cleared, slowly we beheld a door amongst the wreckage where there had never been a door before. It sat squarely in the center of a tall, flat structure, a fair twenty feet wide and thirty feet tall at least, in a shape that suggested the stylized outline of a house, while at the same time also suggesting the stylized outline of a window with six panes.  
  
I had seen this shape before.

We all had.  
  
It was this shape that had adorned the packaging of the video game we had all begun to play together what had seemed like a lifetime ago.

It towered above us, itself casting a shadow of the same eerie darkness cast by the behemoth we had just vanquished.

No, I am letting my experiences color the memory. At the time I felt no such foreboding -- only giddy trepidation as our group slowly drew ever nearer to the door glowing in the middle of the structure.

"This is it," the Knight said as we were within arm's reach.

We all murmured in agreement that it should be her who should open the door, for even though we had each played our part brilliantly, who among us could claim to have saved more lives, landed more hits, and assisted more maneuvers than her? Without the knowledge she had gleaned from her visions on Prospit before the rest of us awakened, we might never have survived to the point of victory.

No, it was unanimous. Only one of us should rightly do the honors of opening the door from one world to the next. Only one of us should be the first of the gods of the new universe.

She grinned broadly at our adulation, her braces catching just a flash of the light from beyond the door. Then, with a deep breath and a set jaw, she grasped the handle and pulled.

The door opened.

It opened into nothing.

Again, I am not speaking accurately enough. To say there was nothing on the other side is misleading. There was something.

It was merely the battlefield.

The same white and black checkered landscape. The same scorch marks and craters. The same carnage and destruction. The same smoke and eerie silence.

"I don't understand," the Knight said, and we all repeated this to each other.

Where was the universe we had created? The glorious new utopia built from the ashes of the world we had left behind? This game's purpose was to create universes, was it not? And we had done everything the game had asked of us. We had bested our denizens, bred the perfect tadpole, defeated the Monarchs of Derse, impregnated the battlefield, ceased the Reckoning, climbed our echeladders. All of this and more we had completed, all at the behest of legends and guides, information gathered from sprites and consorts and ancient tomes of lore that had always existed. There was nothing we had not done, was there?

"That can't be right..." the Knight said, and I turned to look at her.

She was looking at her hands, where she had taken off the ring and held it up to the scepter. She was studying them intensely.

I walked over to see what had caught her attention. Her gaze was rapidly switching between the two of them, landing on the spots where each was ringed with six white pearls.

I looked closer.

One of the pearls was a darker color than the rest. Or perhaps it was not the color that was different. Rather, tiny cracks spiderwebbed throughout one pearl on each of the relics.

The Knight and I locked eyes, and the possibility of what this meant entered unbidden into our minds.

Without speaking, she opened a portal, and we both looked through it. It opened into the heart of the Battlefield, the pulsating force into which we had fired the tadpole that would grow into the Genesis Frog that held our universe. The heart itself was at the end of a long, straight tunnel that we had carefully dug to reach it.

And on the walls of that tunnel were smeared the remains of the tadpole, fired only a fraction of a degree off from the correct angle, smashed into oblivion mere inches from its cosmic destiny.

The Knight screamed. She screamed and screamed and screamed, an anguished, horrified, bloodcurdling roar that completely stopped my heart for a time. She ripped open a portal directly beneath her and fell into it.

Then she fell into it again.

And again.

And again.

Then another portal opened beside it, and this time as she fell into the first, she launched herself out of the other side at terminal velocity, hurtling away from the battlefield like a rocket.

Up, past the clouds, she disappeared, and we did not see her again for some time. 


End file.
